


she sounds like sex on the radio

by lecornergirl



Series: literally just sex wow [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, That's basically what this is, radio porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecornergirl/pseuds/lecornergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was probably a good thing that even her boss didn’t listen to the 1AM-3AM slot on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because while Clarke had been super careful about what she said and did on air in the beginning, three months in it was a different story.<br/>...<br/>“Wait, hold on,” Clarke says. “Are you suggesting I—in the booth?” But her tone is a lot sterner than she feels. Against her better judgement, she’s into it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she sounds like sex on the radio

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sex On The Radio by Good Charlotte.

In the beginning, Clarke had been super careful about what she said and did on air. It was a live radio show, after all—you never knew who could be listening.

Then she realised that when it came to the 1AM-3AM slot on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, the answer was probably no one. So she began to treat her radio show kind of like a diary. Really, all it was was her talking to herself in between whatever music she was in the mood for.

It was probably a good thing that even her boss didn’t listen to the 1AM-3AM slot on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because while Clarke had been super careful about what she said and did on air in the beginning, three months in it was a different story.

“So… yeah. I’m not even saying I need to get laid—I can take care of that, you know? Although, I mean, I wouldn’t say no. But more than that it’s just that I want to be touched by a real person. A real person who is not me. Or my tragically straight and therefore extremely platonic roommate.”

She puts on another track and leans back in her chair with a small sigh. It’s closing in on 3AM, meaning her shift will be over soon and she can be home and maybe even get a few hours of sleep before her criminally early biology lab in the morning.

Clarke thought student radio was a thing she wanted to do, she really did. But loving student radio is easier said than done when you’re trying to dissect a small animal on three hours of sleep first thing in the morning, and it’s all student radio’s fault. But Clarke Griffin is not a quitter, which is why she’d resolved to see the year through.

When the song goes into the final chorus, the phone rings. Her radio show is technically a call-in show—all student radio shows are technically call-in shows—but no one has ever actually called in before (which only served to contribute to her theory that no one ever actually listened to her show).

So while she means to pick up the phone all official and business-like, what comes out is more like “Clarke Griffin, student radio—are you sure you’ve got the right number?”

“I’m quite sure, Princess,” the voice on the other end says, and Clarke maybe sort of shivers a little, because _what a voice._ The _princess_ bit isn’t helping, either.

“Well. Hi, then,” Clarke says, unsure of protocol. No one has ever actually called in before. The current song ends, and she flips a switch, broadcasting their conversation to the listeners. Then she realises the person on the other end of the line is quite possibly the only person to actually qualify as a listener. But hey, why not.

“I’m Bellamy,” the voice says, and Clarke racks her brain for any Bellamys she might know, because it’s got to be a joke, right? This has got to be someone she knows pranking her, because no one listens to her show.

“Hi, Bellamy,” Clarke says, feeling like a child greeting a teacher, or perhaps an alcoholic at an AA meeting.

“So, listen. I heard what you were saying before that song.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So anyway, there’s this thing that I think would be… interesting. And, okay, yeah, it does fall more under the getting laid bit than the being touched by another person bit, but do you really have anything else to do in that booth?”

“Wait, hold on,” Clarke says. “Are you suggesting I—in the booth?” But her tone is a lot sterner than she feels. Against her better judgement, she’s into it.

“Look, hear me out. Just look up Hysterical Literature, all right? It’s this video project by… I forget the guy’s name, but it’s really weird. His initials are CC. Anyway, yeah, just look it up. I think it could be adapted for radio pretty brilliantly, actually.”

“Hysterical Literature? That sounds weird,” Clarke says, even as she scrawls the words on a sticky note and slips it into her planner.

“Just give it a shot,” Bellamy says, and hangs up.

 

One song later Clarke is packing up and walking out to her car. She means to pass out as soon as she gets to her apartment, she really does, but she can’t for the life of her figure out what the hell Hysterical Literature might be and it’s really bothering her. So she gets out her laptop and googles it.

It’s porn. Her mystery radio caller told her to look up porn. She should have known, really, based on what he said about the getting laid bit. Also just because it figures that her only call-in ever would just tell her to look up porn.

Okay, so, it’s not exactly porn in the strictest sense of the word. It’s women reading out loud with vibrators between their legs. It’s kind of art. But it’s also basically porn.

Clarke doesn’t intend to watch them all in one go, but then she clicks play on the first one and an hour or so later she’s in bed with her hand down her pants, imagining herself doing that in the radio booth, and she realises she hasn’t been this turned on in a long time. She takes her time with herself, drawing out the sensations, biting down on her pillow in an effort not to wake Raven, whose room is just behind the wall. When she finally lets herself come, it leaves her shuddering for several moments, trying to get her breath back.

She’s tired as hell the next morning, but god, that orgasm was worth it.

* * *

1AM on Thursday finds Clarke in the radio booth again, but with an excitement she hasn’t felt since probably week two. She wonders if Bellamy will call again, because part of her really wants to tell him about her experiences watching Hysterical Literature. It’s probably weird that she wants to tell a guy she’s only spoken to once about how amazing her orgasm was, but she way she sees it, he’s partially responsible for it, so.

He calls around two, halfway through Clarke’s shift.

“So?” he says when she picks up. “What did you think?”

“It was… interesting,” Clarke says. “And really fucking hot,” she adds before she loses her nerve. “Jesus. I’m getting wet just thinking about it.” There are probably enough tracks queued up for her to get through this conversation without having to think about radio things.

Bellamy chuckles. “I thought you might like it. So, how do you feel about re-enacting it on air?”

Clarke swears under her breath. “Is this, like, a kink for you? Do you often call up girls on the radio and tell them to touch themselves on air?”

“You’re the first one,” he admits. “I catch your program sometimes on my way home from work and there’s just, um. Something about your voice. I don’t really know what it is. I just got it into my head that I really, really want to hear you doing this. So I figured, you know, why not just ask.”

“I was going to tell you no, you know,” Clarke says, a smirk in her voice. “But how could I deny my number one fan?”

“Hey, now, I hardly said I’m your number one fan,” Bellamy protests.

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure you’re my only fan, so it kind of works out like that.”

“Fair enough, I guess,” Bellamy says with a laugh. “So. Does that mean you’re going to do it?”

“Um,” Clarke says, biting her lower lip a little. “I would love to. Like, you have no idea how much. Is it weird to tell someone who’s basically a stranger how turned on you are? Because, like, so much. But I don’t have the necessary, um, equipment.”

“So what you’re saying is you’d do it but you don’t have a vibrator,” Bellamy says, and she’s impressed by how casually he says it. And by impressed she means she’s pretty sure her underwear is soaked through at this point. There’s no denying how much she really wants to do this.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she confirms.

“Well. I can fix that.”

Clarke sputters. “Are you for real?”

“Yeah, no, seriously, not a problem. I know where the radio booth is. And please keep in mind that I mean this in the least weird way possible.”

“Right. Of course. Okay. Because none of this is weird.”

“Exactly. Shit, you have no idea how much I’m looking forward to Tuesday.”

“I kind of might. I also kind of don’t know how I’m going to get through the rest of this shift, because holy fuck, I’ve never been this turned on by a conversation before. Also I’m not sure that the ‘by a conversation’ bit was even necessary. Jesus.”

Bellamy is silent for a second or two, until: “Do you, um. Want me to talk you through it?”

“Talk me throu—oh. _Oh_.” For a brief moment, Clarke’s brain is at war with the throbbing between her legs, but only for a brief moment. “God, yes.”

“Okay, so. You should probably put your phone on speaker.”

“Okay, done.” Clarke puts the phone on the table, and every inch of her is tingling.

“Okay. Take off your shirt, but imagine someone is watching you. Take your time. Trail your fingers up your sides, over your stomach, but keep them out of your bra. When you’re in your bra, run your fingers through your hair. Let it fall over your shoulders. Are you still with me?”

Clarke hums affirmatively, tracing the top edge of her bra with her fingertips. Her nipples are begging to be touched, but she’s listening for Bellamy’s next instruction.

“Unbutton your jeans, but don’t take them off yet. Touch yourself through your panties for me, Princess.” Clarke sighs at the contact, stroking herself with two fingers through the damp material.

“Unhook your bra now,” Bellamy says. “Draw circles on your breasts with your fingers, but don’t touch your nipples yet. Just keep getting closer.”

With each concentric circle, Clarke feels her nipples getting harder, and if she doesn’t touch them soon she thinks she’ll explode. Bellamy wouldn’t know if she did, but there’s something about the way he gives commands that makes her want to obey them.

“Pinch your nipples now,” he says, and Clarke moans. “Lick your palms and drag them across your nipples.” Clarke doesn’t know if there’s a limit for how turned on you can be, but she thinks she’s reaching it.

“Okay, Princess, time to take your jeans off. Remember, imagine someone is watching. Enjoy it.”

Clarke peels her jeans off, running her hands down her legs, wondering at how the contact sends a jolt to her core. She didn’t know shins were erogenous zones, but. You learn something every day.

“Panties too, now,” Bellamy says, and she knows she’s probably meant to do that slowly as well, but she’s been waiting for long enough.

“Prop your feet up on something. Does your chair have armrests? Or just on the table. Lean your head back, spread your legs. Relax.” She follows his instructions, but his voice is having the exact opposite effect. She doesn’t tell him that, mainly because she’s not sure she could get the words out right now.

“Start by touching your breasts again. Run your palms across your nipples. Drag your hands down your sides, across your stomach. Go down the outsides of your thighs, then back up the insides. Stay there for a moment. Stroke up and down your inner thigh.”

Clarke’s pretty sure she’s leaving a puddle on the booth chair at this point. It takes all of her restraint to do what Bellamy says instead of just forging ahead, but she manages it, somehow.

“Okay, Princess, now I want you to run two fingers from the bottom of your slit to the top, as slowly as you can. Get them nice and wet for me.” Clarke does as he says, gasping at the contact. She’s not normally one for build-up, but god, maybe she should be. Or maybe she’s just a lot more into this phone sex thing than she ever thought she was.

“Circle your clit now,” Bellamy says, and Clarke moans. “Keep going, slowly, until I tell you to stop. And take care not to come before I give you permission.”

Clarke has stopped trying to control the sounds she makes, and so she almost misses Bellamy’s next command. “With your other hand, slip a finger inside yourself. Just one, though, for now. Rotate it a little. Actually, no, add another one. Why not. Now just keep going. Slowly.”

She thinks his plan is probably to drive her insane with this tortuous limbo of not quite enough contact, but hey. There are worse ways to go.

Finally, he says, “faster, now, harder,” and she can barely remember to hold on until he tells her to— “Come for me now, Princess.”

She cries out as her orgasm rocks through her, curling her toes. Panting, it’s all she can do to say “holy shit” in the general direction of the phone.

Bellamy laughs, and she’s pretty sure she can hear him stroking his cock, but she’s not about to protest. He deserves it. “Until Tuesday,” he says, and once again hangs up before she can reply.

She lies there catching her breath for a few more moments, until a blinking red light catches her eye. It’s probably a good thing no one ever listens to her show, because they’ve been on air the entire time.

For the first time ever, Clarke leaves the booth before her shift is over. There really isn’t any way she can concentrate on a radio show after that.

* * *

On Tuesday, there’s a guy with dark hair and probably more freckles than there are stars in the sky leaning against the door to the booth when she gets there.

“Hi,” he says, and she knows exactly who it is. “I’m—” he has trouble finishing the rest of his sentence, because his mouth is suddenly otherwise occupied. By Clarke’s mouth.

Someone clears their throat behind Bellamy, and they break apart. Clarke’s boss is also waiting for her at the door to the booth. It turns out he listens to recordings of all the shows on student radio on fast forward, and Clarke’s fired.

But Bellamy, holding up a copy of some book, says “surely you won’t need a vibrator if you’ve got me?” Clarke’s ex-boss splutters, and Clarke finds she really couldn’t care less about being fired.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the 100 or Hysterical Literature. You should look into that, though. It's pretty much exactly what I said it is.


End file.
